Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  The men smirked.

  “Amen,” Spock said. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’d like to get home sometime.”

  “Meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes?” Hunter asked.

  They all nodded.

  As Hunter walked to the main building, he called over his shoulder, “I need to get food for Spike.”

  Before the other three left the table, Lynche said, “Always a Marine officer. I have to tell you that someone close to Duncan died in the World Trade Center attack—an off-duty flight attendant on the American Airlines flight. He doesn’t talk about it much. I understand she was an old neighbor who lived across the street. They even dated in high school. So it’s kinda personal.”

  “I didn't know that.” Nazy appreciated the information.

  “My kind of guy,” Spock said.

  “Mine, too,” Nazy and Lynche said simultaneously.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  1900 June 17, 2011

  Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia

  Nazy, Spock, Lynche, and Hunter left the brilliant sunshine and high humidity outside, as they entered the back door and passed through the kitchen of the old airport manager’s house on the Farmington River. Upon seeing the woman and three men, the most people bin Laden had seen in weeks, he knew they were the CIA interrogation crew he expected and feared.

  “You don’t intimidate me!” he shrieked. “I have rights.”

  Nazy, translating without looking at him, sat behind the Saudi. Osama bin Laden glared at her, as she left his field of vision.

  Nazy and Greg immediately got over the shock of seeing the terrorist struggling against his restraints. Hunter ignored the man and removed his backpack from his shoulder in front of bin Laden, then he walked to the plastic grocery bags LeMarcus brought from town to extract a roll of duct tape. He tore off a piece, walked up to the prisoner, and backhanded him hard. While bin Laden recovered from the surprising blow, Hunter slapped duct tape across his mouth and stubble.

  Lynche turned his head, thinking he had to leave the room. But he stayed.

  On the drive from the hotel to the airport, Hunter and Nazy chatted quietly in the back seat. Lynche occasionally heard what they planned to do and how they hoped to get the terrorist to break.

  As Lynche drove, Spock snoozed beside him, and the lovebirds in back discussed how Hunter would encourage Osama bin Laden to talk. Though Lynche might have heard the words “getting his attention,” he knew Hunter would torture the man.

  Lynche convinced himself that when Hunter reached the point where he couldn’t watch anymore, he'd go outside, take a long walk, and ignore the whole thing. However, when Hunter slapped bin Laden, Lynche was instantly mesmerized.

  Hunter was first and foremost a pilot and college professor of aviation. He had no training or history in interrogation, and neither did Lynche. Feeling anxious, Lynche saw that the situation could get out of hand, and they’d soon have a dead terrorist to dispose of; their mission for naught.

  Nazy was a trained interrogator for the Agency. Lynche had difficulty comprehending that she’d have sanctioned such activity, and his gaze went from bin Laden to Hunter to Nazy, seeking answers to the questions ricocheting in his mind.

  Her expression was mild shock and stunned horror when Hunter unleashed his hideous backhand. Lynche saw his friend play racquetball enough to recognize the powerful choreographed uncoiling of his torso with his feet instinctively placed to capture the full energy transfer to the point of impact. Spittle flew from Osama bin Laden’s mouth. Lynche expected his jaw to be broken or to see teeth tumble from his mouth, but it didn’t happen. He felt Hunter’s interrogation was spinning out of control and steeled himself for a confrontation. Lynche crossed his arms, sending the unmistakable and powerful body language that he disapproved, but stayed rooted to the floor.

  Osama bin Laden glared at Hunter, then he looked toward where the woman in the headscarf disappeared. For some reason, she wanted to hide her face. He bounced in his seat, hoping to overturn the chair, but Spock stepped up and held it steady. Spike, disinterested and hungry, left the building, thinking the show was about to start. He had food to eat.

  “Tell him, ‘You don’t have any rights.’” Hunter took several newspapers from his backpack. All came from May 2, 2011, and the headlines read Osama Dead! He tossed them onto the table in front of the man. “Tell him, ‘As far as anyone is concerned, you’re already dead.’ Translate, please.”

  Nazy spoke rapidly in Arabic.

  Osama bin Laden was stunned. His eyes turned upward to see Duncan withdraw a roll of white plastic cord and a small electronic device with a switch, setting them on the table.

  “Whatever I do to you,” Hunter said, “I’m doing to a dead man who’s sitting at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Translate, please.”

  Nazy brought a chair to the far end of the table and sat. She didn’t look at bin Laden as she shook her head, but she translated as asked.

  Osama bin Laden was confused. He blinked his eyes wildly. Everyone watched Hunter walk to the far side of the room, armed with a two-foot, five-inch-thick piece of mahogany in one hand. In the other he held dull white loops of cord that resembled clothesline.

  “Count one, two three, in Arabic, please,” Hunter said. He swung the wood against the concrete floor. The low-frequency thudding was unmistakable, showing the wood was solid and dense. In one movement, he placed the log against the opposite wall from Osama bin Laden and looped the white cord around the middle of the log in a series of half-hitches, until there were three tight, white loops against the dark-brown wood.

  Hunter took pliers from his pocket and cut the end to separate the roll with the clove hitch on the wood. He walked to the table and placed the cord directly in front of Osama bin Laden.

  Evil eyes bored into Hunter’s back, as he retrieved the little black box and pulled wires from it as he walked toward the piece of wood. Hunter bent over and carefully inserted a wire into each end of the white cord. Suddenly, the device with wires contrasting the white cord took on an ominous quality. Osama bin Laden unconsciously leaned to see what Duncan was doing.

  When Hunter stood, he raised the little black box to his waist. “Fingers in your ears. Please count to three in Arabic.”

  Nazy did as instructed. On “three,” Hunter pressed the red button, and a muffled explosion filled the room with concussive power. The white cord instantly vaporized on the mahogany and severed the log into two equal parts.

  Bin Laden, shocked by the power of the detonating cord, remained stunned as Hunter moved quickly to bin Laden and wrapped three loops of the innocuous-looking cord around the terrorist’s right wrist. In abject terror, bin Laden fought the duct tape, shaking his head vigorously. Spock kept the chair firmly planted on the floor.

  Hunter clipped the end of the cord, inserted the wires into the detonation cord, and set the little black box on the end of the table. Hate filled the terrorist’s eyes, and Hunter looked at him from under his brows.

  Hunter turned and walked to the other side of the room. All eyes followed him, as he picked up the jumper cables and strolled back to the front of the table. With a black-covered clamp in one hand and a red-covered clamp in the other, he walked to the front of the table and squeezed both clamps, bracketing the deadly black box and revealing sharp, copper-colored teeth that would have made a prehistoric raptor envious. Duncan Hunter held them in front of his face, admiring the workmanship and functionality before thrusting the clamps into the edge of the table and releasing the tension. Sharp copper teeth dug into the old wood, emitting a grunt from the friction as the wood was punctured and crushed.

  Osama bin Laden’s eyes never left the black-and-red insulated clamps, following their path to the table. Fear replaced hate. The table’s wood wasn’t rotten, but the clamps had strong springs and sharp teeth. Wondering just how bad the sadist in front of him would hurt him, he began to hyperventilate.

  “Translate please. Here�
�s the deal. You know how Ayman al-Zawahiri was tortured by the Muslim Brotherhood. Just so there is no ambiguity, Muslim brothers used jumper cables like these and clamped them on his testicles like this. He talked.”

  Hunter opened the black clamp and removed it from the table, walking to where bin Laden sat. He jammed the meaty part of bin Laden’s right hand into the V of the clamp and released the tension.

  Half-inch copper teeth tore into his soft flesh, muscle, and bone. Thick blood oozed from the clamp. Osama bin Laden shrieked and howled against the tape on his face. Spock held the heavy wooden chair firm, as the man tried to pull his hand and arm away from the duct tape but failed. Blood dripped to the floor.

  Lynche's pulse quickened, but he didn’t move. Nazy closed her eyes and momentarily looked away.

  Osama bin Laden thrashed against his restraints and screamed into the duct tape but tired quickly. The chair rocked back and forth as he broke down; the fight was leaving him.

  After a moment, bin Laden’s energy was spent, and he wept. Hunter squeezed the jumper cable and removed it from the weeping man. The relief on his face was instantaneous. He hated the American.

  Nazy asked if he needed medical attention. He nodded. “A little.”

  Spock moved in with a first-aid kit from a cargo pocket and quickly dressed the flesh wound. Admiring his handiwork and applying two Band-Aids, Spock retired to his position against the wall.

  “We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” Nazy translated. “You tell me what I want to know, and no battery cables. You lie to me, or spit at her…. Translate please.”

  Osama bin Laden raised his shaven head to look at his tormentor. Hate was gone, replaced by fear.

  “…and I push the red button before I bolt your balls to the battery. Do I need to demonstrate the power of my battery?” His inflection was chilling.

  Nazy translated.

  Osama bin Laden shivered; his breathing increased. He was terrified. He shook his head.

  Hunter’s expression didn’t change, but he knew he had him.

  “You cooperate, and I won’t hurt you. I’ll remove the tape. We can have a friendly talk on a variety of subjects I want to know, things I think you want people to know. When we’re done, I'll put you on a jet and point you toward Mecca, and we’re out of your life forever. I promise.”

  Nazy struggled to keep up with Hunter's machine gun words.

  Lynche was shocked by Hunter’s promise. He was lying, and he thought Osama bin Laden knew it.

  “You lie, or I think you’re lying, and you lose your hand,” Hunter continued. “Then I’ll clamp your balls with these clamps. As they crush and shred your testicles, I’ll hook you up to that battery.”

  Hunter took three steps to the battery on the floor, attached one end of the cables to the terminals, then he quickly banged the two uninsulated ends together, creating a spectacular shower of sparks. Brilliant white light flashed in the darkened room. Tiny balls of molten metal fell to the floor from the blackened ends. The smell of ozone filled the room.

  “You’ll hear your testicles shatter before you feel them explode. You’ll know why Zawahiri was a broken man, why he talked. I don’t want to hurt you. I only want to know what really happened. Am I clear?”

  Nazy translated in rapid-fire Arabic. The last group of words, apparently translated more easily.

  Osama bin Laden, inhaling the scent of vaporized metal, gazed at the blackened ends of the clamps, then he nodded toward Hunter. He stopped hyperventilating, and his breathing relaxed.

  Hunter still anticipated bin Laden would try to fool him. When he withdrew a large pocketknife and opened the blade to reveal a wickedly serrated edge, bin Laden’s eyes bulged, and he tried to back up in the chair, anticipating pain and terror from the madman.

  Hunter slowly peeled the tape from bin Laden’s face and cut the duct tape from his left hand and arm, allowing him to use one hand.

  Bin Laden wiped his mouth. Hunter went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water. Bin Laden took small sips. As he quenched his thirst, Hunter removed the clamps from the table. The additional freedom of motion and movement seemed to energize the terrorist. He ran scenarios and rationalized his responses to expected questions. He wouldn’t make it easy for the American.

  His microexpressions gave him away. The SEAL snapped his fingers to get Hunter’s attention.

  “He’s still thinking about how he will lie,” the SEAL said.

  Nazy, resplendent in dark-blue headscarf and abaya, didn’t look at the terrorist as she said, “Your family is well. They weren’t harmed. The men came for you to ask you questions. Please cooperate, and no harm will come to you. We can tell you’re thinking about not cooperating. Please banish such thoughts. You’re a great leader sheikh. You’re a true knight for Islam. You fought Zionists and infidels. Please answer my questions fully and with dignity, and no harm will come to you.”

  The terrorist turned to Spock, as the SEAL revealed his wireless Taser. Osama bin Laden learned to fear the black stick with the red bulb on its end. When a SEAL flicked the switch to On, and the stick crackled with tens of thousands of volts, bin Laden learned to do what was asked. Four hits from the bang stick was enough. By turning on the device, the SEAL reminded bin Laden there was at least one other way to die while screaming.

  Osama bin Laden took a thoughtful, deep breath and asked, “What do you wish to ask me, my child?”

  Nazy nodded, and the SEAL de-energized the Taser. Nazy didn’t look at Osama bin Laden directly. She conducted and recorded the discussion as if it were an interview.

  “Why did al-Zawahiri betray you?”

  “I knew it.” Osama bin Laden shook his head and told her what he thought about their last fight and the accusations—and where he thought the Americans would find him.

  Nazy asked question after question from her list. She took notes in the margins, as the high-tech recorder rolled on. Lynche completely recovered from his earlier stage fright and brought chicken and rice and water for the terrorist.

  OBL slowly ate between questions. Several times, he challenged Nazy’s assertion of where he kept account numbers, accounts, and computer access codes. “I hid them were no one would find them. In two Bibles!”

  Hunter and Lynche recognized the Arabic word for Bible.

  “The Americans expected to find radios and the Internet but did not. No Internet. Radios were built into the walls of my studios. Very difficult to find.”

  For several hours, the terrorist and the intelligence officer in the headscarf discussed the inner workings and funding of al-Qaeda, the treachery of Zawahiri, planning for 9/11, Osama bin Laden’s escape from Afghanistan, and the move to his house in Pakistan.

  They discussed his family, his health, and his future with a bounty on his head. Did he ever think America would come for him? How did Pakistan fail to protect him?

  They established a dialogue that was non-adversarial but spirited at times. When Nazy felt he was equivocating, she looked at Duncan with a tinge of incredulity Osama immediately recognized. He never apologized to her but offered to restate what he meant, hoping the sadist across the room wouldn’t question his answers.

  Nazy asked, “How did Bashir become involved? We know he provided some of the martyrs for 9/11.”

  “You know about Bashir?” Osama bin Laden blurted. “Your intelligence is very good. Ah, he had the resources.”

  Nazy nodded. Bin Laden unconsciously shook his head in disbelief.

  “He provided all martyrs. He liked young men. I disapproved, but al-Zawahiri was insistent. We needed quality, educated, English-speaking martyrs to go to America. We didn’t have quality mujahidin in Afghanistan for such martyr operations. Bashir had many men willing to please Allah. Peace be upon Him.”

  “Newspapers reported twenty martyrs for 9/11, but we know there were many more.”

  Osama bin Laden glanced at Hunter and nodded. “Yes. We planned ten aircraft, with five muj per aircraft
. Martyrs from Britain.”

  “And, they passed through airport security where Muslims worked. Many airports,” Nazy stated.

  Osama bin Laden, showing a little surprise, nodded again. “Bashir’s concept was a very good plan. Mujahidin and shaheed were excited to serve Allah. We didn’t expect they would stop the aircraft from flying.”

  “Always Muslim boys?”

  “Of course. Shaheed, volunteers, a martyr over many years. He cultivated many for his business and al-Qaeda. His favorites were well provided for.”

  “Like funds for college? He gave money to poor families for their boys.” She was exhausted, and the information came from the terrorist’s mouth faster than she could write.

  “Exactly. You know this, too? Remarkable. Yes, he provided money to families. Boys would go to Europe. Money for colleges.”

  “Is it fair to say all you had to do was entertain Bashir and his friends, and he’d provide them and their family’s money?”

  “Yes.”

  “The American president visited you when he was a young man. Several times.”

  Osama bin Laden blinked several times. “Yes. I don’t remember him very well. We saw many interested in jihad.”

  Nazy looked at him, clearly not believing his words. Osama bin Laden saw she didn’t believe him. “He visited Pakistan and Afghanistan two times. I saw him two times. I remember the large ears. I could not use him. He was very weak, bookish and boring. Only wanted to talk. I sent him back to Bashir. Bashir said he had a project for big ears. Sent him to America schools. Bashir suggested politics. Becoming president was a surprise.”

  “Was that your idea or Bashir’s? That sounds like your idea, Sheikh.” She felt she was at the threshold of learning something significant. She glanced at Hunter for relief only to find him yawning.

  “Thank you, but no. Bashir.” An epiphany struck bin Laden, and his eyes brightened.

  “And, then he tried to kill you. He sent soldiers to kill you. Why?”

  Bin Laden’s hand throbbed, but he smiled and chuckled. Suddenly, he smiled at Hunter, then he turned to Nazy, nodding with understanding.